I like poems that are a pleasure to read. I like poems that bounce along in my mind like a nursery rhyme. I like a poem that could be enjoyed by a child, by rhythm and rhyme alone. For that same reason, a lot of modern poetry has yet to appeal to me.
I also like poems that I wish I had written. I don’t just want to relate to a poem. I want to read a poem that makes me realise that all the deepest, soul-wrenching feelings I hold in me have been felt before and will be felt again by people more articulate than me.
My favourite poet is a songwriter and a wicked romantic. He ties both my favourite parts of poetry on the sharp tongue of a divorced rich uncle.
Let me introduce you to one of my favourite Leonard Cohen poems.
This Isn’t China
Hold me close
and tell me what the world is like
I don’t want to look outside
I want to depend on your eyes
and your lips
I don’t want to feel anything
but your hand
on the old raw bumper
I don’t want to feel anything else
If you love the dead rocks
and the huge rough pine trees
Ok I like them too
Tell me if the wind
makes a pretty sound
in the billion billion needles
I’ll close my eyes and smile
Tell me if it’s a good morning
or a clear morning
Tell me what the fuck kind of morning it is
and I’ll buy it
And get the dog
to stop whining and barking
This isn’t China
nobody’s going to eat it
It’s just going to get fed and petted
Ok where were we?
Ok go if you must.
I’ll create the cosmos
by myself
I’ll let it all stick to me
every fucking pine needle
And I’ll broadcast my affection
from this shaven dome
360 degrees
to all the dramatic vistas
to all the mists and snows
that moves across
the shining mountains
to the women bathing
in the stream
and combing their hair
on the roofs
to the voiceless ones
who have petitioned me
from their surprising silence
to the poor in the heart
(oh more and more to them)
to all the thought-forms
and leaking mental objects
that you get up here
at the end of your ghostly life
This Isn’t China by Leonard Cohen is the dream-like ramblings of a man who has woken up in the arms of a lover. It’s early in the morning, and it’s cold outside beyond the bounds of their bed. I can’t quite decide whose bed it is, but I don’t think it’s theirs.
Through the poem, she’s getting up, getting dressed, readying herself to go out whilst this man lays in a lazy stupor. It’s not laziness that keeps him there – his mind travels the world (as far as to China, you could say) and builds images of natural beauty through his lover’s eyes. To me, the poet feels small. Not insignificant-small, but one-with-the-universe-small. Last night was likely a very nice evening, though she may not be feeling the same way.
Let’s break it down a bit.
Hold me close
and tell me what the world is like
I don’t want to look outside
I want to depend on your eyes
and your lips
I don’t want to feel anything
but your hand
on the old raw bumper
I don’t want to feel anything else
The first five lines of this poem are my favourite. It’s warm and intimate. It’s the bed covers still covering them both as a shield from both the outside world and the reality of the situation. The grand, beautiful trust in wanting only to perceive the world through your lover. Her quiet whisper might reply with something just as gentle and beautiful as the rest of this poem.
Then he steps a little lower. Her lips, her hands, his “old raw bumper”, which is, in my opinion, exactly the descriptor you think it is. Leonard Cohen never shies away from his crude humour and it punctuates his writing to remind you of his character. See previously, ‘divorced rich uncle’.
Finally, “I don’t want to feel anything else”. It’s romantic alone, but as we continue, it feels more like a stubborn grasp on the tail end of their night together.
If you love the dead rocks
and the huge rough pine trees
Ok I like them too
Tell me if the wind
makes a pretty sound
in the billion billion needles
I’ll close my eyes and smile
The world gets much wider here, beyond the warm bed and into the forest. He describes what should be a stunning landscape with words like “dead”, “rough” and emphasis on “needles”. It’s an almost petulant description. Without her, he cannot see the beauty in the world, but he has no trouble playing the devil’s advocate as she gets up to see it for herself.
Despite his antagonistic pine forest, he’s also aware of his own longing. Our first real sign of the power imbalance between the poet and his lover. Where in lines 3 & 4 he was offering all of his trust, now he blindly agrees to see the world in her view, even though his own descriptors are ugly and crass. Does he want to see the world in a better way, or does he just want her to stay in bed a while longer?
Tell me if it’s a good morning
or a clear morning
Tell me what the fuck kind of morning it is
and I’ll buy it
And get the dog
to stop whining and barking
This isn’t China
nobody’s going to eat it
It’s just going to get fed and petted
We start with the continued theme of living through her eyes. “Tell me what the fuck kind of morning it is – and I’ll buy it” sets the romance apart from the desperation. And desperation is not quite the right word. It’s a little bit exhausted, like he’s been here before, perhaps with another woman. He plays along as the blinded lover just enough to be what she wants to hear, before his mask slips from the barking dog.
The dog plays a brief but titular role in the scene of the poem. It whines and barks despite the fact that “it’s just going to get fed and petted”. Personally, I’m undecided on whether the dog is a metaphor for the poet, the lover, or just a dog. Either way it’s a relatable sensation of making a fuss over nothing at all, and eventually getting what you want.
Things could be a lot worse than strained love. You could be a dog in China*.
*The racist stereotype of people eating dogs in China is not condoned by the author of this blog. This poem was written by a talented but problematic elderly Canadian man. Does the racism have a deeper meaning or function within the poem? You tell me.
Ok where were we?
Ok go if you must.
I’ll create the cosmos
by myself
I’ll let it all stick to me
every fucking pine needle
And I’ll broadcast my affection
from this shaven dome
These first two lines are a pivot back into the dreamy romance of the bedroom. The dog is forgotten (or perhaps sated) and our poet returns to the harsh wider world without his lover. It’s evident now that she is leaving in some capacity, and he carries the burden of creating his own beauty. Creating the cosmos by oneself sounds like a pretty tiring feat, and letting “every fucking pine needle” stick to you doesn’t sound much fun either. It reads like the beginning of a tantrum…until we reach his “affection”.
To me, this is the real turning point of the poem. His love and affection is suddenly sent soaring through the world from the “shaven dome” of his head. Perhaps his lover has finally left the room, and now he sits in his own feelings without trying to impress her. When she is gone, and he is alone with his thoughts, the world changes.
360 degrees
to all the dramatic vistas
to all the mists and snows
that moves across
the shining mountains
to the women bathing
in the stream
and combing their hair
on the roofs
“Dramatic vistas” says it all. Imagery of mist, snow, and mountains in “360 degrees” are in stark contrast to the “dead rocks” and even the warmth of our opening lines. It’s cold, bright, and beautiful scenery, descending from the heavens into the details of miscellaneous “women bathing in the stream”. There’s a sudden wildness and fresh air and naked women like an open window in the dark bedroom. It’s beauty in the world and in the women he loves.
This is where he feels one-with-the-universe-small. Nobody, not even Leonard Cohen, feels like a big man next to a snowy mountain. Our poet is considering his life as a whole part of something bigger. It comes off the back of a failed plea to a lover – but it’s the satisfied resignation of a man who has taken his fill regardless.
to the voiceless ones
who have petitioned me
from their surprising silence
to the poor in the heart
(oh more and more to them)
I have mixed feelings about “the voiceless ones”, but my current favourite idea is (bear with me here) referring back to the “wind” making “a pretty sound – in the billion billion needles”. At the beginning of the poem, he never heard the sound himself, he was simply relying on his lover to hear it for him. Now she is gone and he still hears nothing – in spite of that, he found beauty anyway.
The lines that finish this section are the words of a man in love. Though being so much in love can send you spiralling, he would wish it on every person alive.
to all the thought-forms
and leaking mental objects
that you get up here
at the end of your ghostly life
We enter the final stage of our poem here. I feel as if he sits above the “vistas” and recognises his own ramblings for what they are. He is not complimentary of them, as “leaking mental objects”, but they are part of his self-made “cosmos”. It’s still cold, despite the beauty, and he feels like a passing moment in the universe. It finishes on the more insignificant side of small. Our poet is carried away like a wisp on the wind, perhaps falling asleep once more in his lover’s bed.
A more informed angle reminds the reader than Leonard Cohen wrote this poem in 2002, aged 68. With all respect, he felt as though he was approaching the end of his life, and his regard of the world feels more “ghostly” than ever. There are many excellent Cohen poems that eloquently describe the eternally youthful love of an old man, and this is one of them.
Was Cohen recounting a story like the scene I have told? Or is there something deeper and more metaphorical to our lovers’ unsteady morning-after? Let me know what you think.